Lashing Out Or Breaking Down
by amor-remanet
Summary: Lilith has an offer to make; Castiel elects the way of pain. DARK!FIC featuring: torture, NON-CON het sexuality  oral , biting, blood-play, knife-play, wing!kink, a smidge of D/s, hurt/comfort


Castiel comes to in a warehouse somewhere, with handcuffs on his wrists and a chain attaching him to the ceiling. His shirt, his jacket, and his trenchcoat have disappeared, leaving him exposed — slender, and pale, and naked to the waist. A ring of burning holy oil surrounds him — larger than it seems would make a decent cage, but blazing so hard that he can feel it from his position in the center — and then he tries to struggle against the restraints, he gets nowhere — he jostles the cuffs, and they clink; the chain rattles; but nothing happens. With a sigh, Castiel looks around and notices the young woman sitting at his feet, looking over the knife in her hands as though examining a priceless piece of art. Through the tumbling golden curls and the long, slim legs, Castiel sees her true face and his nostrils flare.

"Lilith," he says flatly, and without accusation. Batting her eyelashes, and shooting him a faux-innocent smile, she looks up from her blade; her teeth glisten like the ice lurking underneath a pile of snow. His eyes burn to stare into hers, so much so that, if they melt out of his skull, he will not have be surprised; the proximity to her makes his Grace writhe, twisting up Jimmy's lungs and stomach, making his heart palpitate in arrhythmic patterns. Being so close to her, his greatest failure, and after so long… it makes Jimmy protest something about vomiting what Castiel hasn't let him eat. "What are you doing here?" Castiel huffs, his fury snapping at her like a viper, and she insists that she just wants to talk. "I have _nothing_ to say to you, Lilith—"

"No, I know you don't. And," she points out, "I didn't say you did. …But _I_ have things to say to you, _Daddy_."

At this appellation, Castiel flinches, feels his Grace clench up his throat. (And he chides himself — he has to do so — for this reaction and its root in fear; although she has him cornered, chained up, and alone — ostensibly helpless — he has the upper hand. He serves God. No ill can befall him unless it's meant to happen, for some ineffable reason, which will be clouded to him and which he has no business contemplating.) She chuckles as she stands, no doubt at how he has given her some show of her effect on him. Closing the distance between them, she brings a chill with her, one that he feels despite the presence of his Grace. He feels all of it when she runs her fingers down his cheek — her distance from goodness, from the Lord and from her intended purpose — and then his knees start wobbling underneath him. Castiel swallows thickly and braces himself for more of these strange responses. They don't seem to be stopping.

"Oh, _Castiel_," she tut-tuts him, clicking her tongue in an equally disapproving fashion. As his jaw starts to tremble, he forces himself to meet her gaze; she rests her whole palm on the side of his face, and keeping his eyes locked on hers gets harder. "I know how hard it was for you when I chose to follow Lucifer, and how hard it's been… But we're trying to save the world from the humans before they completely _destroy_ it. And considering you killed my General and torture master, I want to make you an offer."

"I don't make Deals with your kind—"

"I didn't _say_ Deal." With one hand, she smacks him, and with the other, she presses the flat edge of the knife into his cheek. "You presumptuous little nuisance… To make a Deal, you need to have something I want — and the only thing I want is you." Gently, she nicks him and as the warm blood trails down his cheek, she licks it off, flicks her freezing tongue along the length of the wound. He shivers, and turns his head away from her again, eyes clenched shut. "I mean, come on, Castiel. I'm busy enough as it is with the Winchesters on my trail and Ruby's ongoing treason. Someone has to help me get your big brother out of his cage."

He forces himself to meet her gaze and hisses, "Abomination. I'll never help you raise Lucifer."

"I thought you'd say that." She smirks; it curls up her lips like smoke, slowly revealing the teeth that glint through the darkness. Without a word, she slides the flat end of the knife up to his forehead and slices into him with surgical precision and the delicacy of a lover's caress. The next place she hits is his neck, slashing off a long swatch of skin; she jumps on it immediately, pressing her frigid lips on his skin, covering the wound with her glacial mouth, kissing and sucking at it, leeching Jimmy's blood and gnashing at his neck with her teeth — they're sharp, her teeth, and Castiel can practically feel the redness springing up where he'll later have a bruise. Snaking her free hand — which sends a shiver running down his back, reaching to the bottom of his spine and refusing to be dislodged — up and into his hair, she nudges their bodies together and rubs her chest into his; though ice-cold, like the rest of her, her breasts are soft, as is the cotton of her blouse, and the thigh she places between his touches him tenderly, as though there's no demon inside her at all.

When she kisses his lips, it's strangely gentle — soft, despite the way she forces his mouth open with her tongue, and the way she drags her teeth along his lip, and the way he can still taste his own blood inside her. Castiel shudders — he doesn't mean to, and he doesn't intend to have the reaction that he does — but Jimmy doesn't see the demon; he only sees the pretty dental hygienist, and her blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, and all the ways in which she resembles his wife — and through the shared part of their consciousness comes a flood of memories of their courtship (_Amelia's smiles shone like sunshine_), their first time sleeping together (_the prom-night intoxication passed between their breaths, smelling like peach schnapps and Jack Daniels, a secret they would later mask with mints and mouthwash, and the warm, soft earth of the football field yielded to their backs as they rolled around beneath the goalpost_) their wedding night (_she worried about the cleanliness of the hotel sheets_), the tryst in the backseat of their car in which they conceived their daughter (_on some days, his footprints were still visible on the inside of the windows_) — and Castiel flinches, groans as the erection strains against his trousers. A throaty chuckle escapes Lilith's mouth as she grinds her hips against his.

"That's interesting," she muses. "I wonder if this still works…" She moves to kneeling in a fluid motion, tracing down his torso with the knife, pressing it into his skin but not making an incision — she rips his trousers open, and jerks them and the underwear into a heap around his knees (which falter underneath him once again, bending, dropping out, straining his arms as the chain gives him no leeway). First comes the feeling of the blade's flat edge, warmer now that Jimmy's blood runs down it, pressing against the erection — then she runs her tongue up the underside, and once again, he trembles. She teases at the tip with her soft, plush lips, wrapping them around the skin and slipping her tongue around the girth — and though Castiel tries to hold back, to restrain himself, he moans as his face contorts, as his wings erupt out of his back and into full view. Lilith nuzzles against his hip and whispers, "I guess it does. …_Swell_."

"What is the point of this, Lilith?" Castiel demands, scowl deepening, nostrils flaring, a rush of anger — which burns like righteous indignation, but feels so… _different_, so more poisonous — swelling up within him and, in a flash, warming everything she tried to freeze. "You know that I won't break for you."

"I know," she concedes with a snide roll of her eyes, slinking back up onto her feet. "But I don't _want_ you to break." She rests her hand in the middle of his chest, right above Jimmy's heart (which races underneath her touch, and Castiel cannot discern whether fear or arousal is the culprit) — slowly, she moves it up his clavicle, his shoulder, the unwounded side of his neck, the cheek she didn't get at with his knife — until, finally, she brings it to his wings. The shivering runs bone-deep, and even deeper, and all his feathers quiver. Running her thumb up and down one in calculated motions, she whispers, "I want you to _feel_, Castiel. …For thwarting my Deal with Sam: here's pain."

With which, she rips the feather and two others out. Castiel screams; blood runs, warm and thick, from these new wounds, down his wings and to his neck, from there down his torso. Lilith takes another feather in her grasp, but this time rubs it sensually, the same way that she rubs her front against his — "So, why did you get in my way, Castiel?" she whispers, lips barely separated from his ear. He groans, but says nothing; his breath comes only in ragged pants. "See, I know that Dean didn't come up with that prophet nonsense on his own… I don't know how he manages _breathing_ on his own, some days…"

"Dean's smarter than you give him credit for," Castiel snaps, biting back the heat of the pain that's started accompanying her touch (it's still cold; he knows this; but as she massages his feather from base to tip, he feels some unexpected warmth), and the scorching pool of arousal building in his belly. She flicks a finger against another feather, and he moans — he didn't count on the pain, but it doesn't _hurt_, as her previous attack did.

"That's not saying a lot," she points out, "considering I don't give him any credit whatsoever." She kisses him again — bites his lower lip with predatory ferocity — and as she does, she finds the _right spot_ on his feather. His knees drop out again — he comes with a shudder, back arching, ejaculate hitting him in the stomach, staining her blouse — "You _love_ him," she hisses. "You're in _love_ with Dean Winchester…" — and then she rips the feather out and Castiel's world goes black again.

When Castiel comes to again, Lilith has left him alone, re-clothed his body and vacated. Blinking back to full consciousness, Castiel rolls onto his back and finds himself staring into Zachariah's face; an expression of placid concern looks down at him and, when Zachariah holds out a hand, Castiel takes it. He comes to his feet, with his superior's assistance — and then he sees the three other angels standing at attention. His eyes widen as he locks them on Zachariah, and he feels Jimmy's heart beat harder, faster, feels his lungs writhe around and a chill overtake him, spreading up from his stomach.

"It seems our concerns were well deserved," he explains with a shrug. As he advances, Castiel retreats, until he feels the chill of a cement wall at his back. Zachariah's hand rests, firm and heavy, on his shoulder. It's warm, but Castiel still feels the ice that Lilith left with him, still remembers the freeze of her touch. "Come with us, Castiel," Zachariah implores, his tone even and unruffled as ever. "Regardless of what these… human reactions — these _emotions_ — would have you believe, the Plan is just—"

"But that was a _lie_," Castiel snaps. He dislikes the desperation that sneaks into his voice, and he dislikes the way that he can't keep his eyes from darting back and forth from Zachariah's hand to his face. "Lilith was _lying_."

Zachariah shakes his head, indicating 'no.' "Do you think so many Seals would have fallen unless their breaking was all a part of the Plan?" he asks — and, for the first time, Castiel stops to consider that. His mouth falls open, and against his will, realization dawns on him and his lips quiver. "Come with us, Castiel. We just want to remind you of your _purpose_ — of why you're _here_. So, please: …come with us?"

As he nods, Castiel feels his knees wobbling beneath him.


End file.
